


Flowers At Her Wrist

by spelledink



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, F/F, Language of Flowers, Love Confessions, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28343592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spelledink/pseuds/spelledink
Summary: Elias-Clarke is having a Secret Santa exchange at its annual Christmas party. Andy and Miranda are matched. Fluff and feelings follow.Hi! This is just a bit of Christmas fluff, starring Miranda and Andy, with an assist from Serena.I wish all of you in the DWP fandom a happy holiday season, and new year filled with health, happiness, and love.
Relationships: Emily Charlton/Serena, Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 18
Kudos: 193





	1. Paired for a Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias-Clarke is having their annual Christmas party. A Secret Santa exchange is planned.  
> Serena meddles.

Miranda Priestly looked over the invitation with disinterest. The annual Yule Ball. A tradition she was loath to take part in, yet obliged to. By one person. Irv Ravitz. Chairman of Elias-Clarke’s board. Miranda’s lips twisted in a bitter sneer.

_Any excuse to flaunt his authority. To show, in the tiniest way, that she was beneath him._

She smirked. Not that he’d ever have the chance to enjoy that particular position. He’d tried, of course. Eager fingers brushing against her. Eyes dark with frustrated want. Miranda sighed. She’d have to attend, of course. Make an appearance. If she knew Irv, there’d be some childish plan to embarrass her. With pictures, no doubt, to follow. Her eyes scanned the invitation. Fine print leaping off the page.

_A Secret Santa exchange? Gifts?_

A low hiss left Miranda’s lips. God knows who she’d get. She’d have to send Emily out to buy something.

Or Andréa.

A slow blush climbed Miranda’s cheeks, as she thought of the younger woman. Her voice, a dusky alto, quick to laughter. Warm, chocolate eyes, flecked with gold. Smooth, porcelain skin, daring her to touch.

 _I wonder when it was, I fell for her._

Paris, at least. She was lost, that night. Wrapped in a gray robe and tears. Fax pages scattered across her room. Cursing the man who’d hurt her, once again. Then Andréa came. Sitting down, on the ivory sofa. Her eyes a plea to stay. Silent, listening. Letting Miranda’s words pour out. Her rage, her sorrow, her fear. Fingers tangled together, her scent a gentle balm. A whisper falling from her lips.

_I won’t leave you._

They slept there, on the couch, in chaste comfort. Limbs entwined, waking in pale dawn. A smile fleeting across the brunette’s lips, as she left. Miranda frowned, thinking of the next day. The things she’d done, to save herself. The things she’d said, and not. The hurt she’d caused. To Andréa, most of all.

_Why did she stay?_

Miranda didn’t know. She was only grateful Andréa had. 

The frosted glass door to her office swung wide. A familiar figure framed within it. Blond hair in a casual ponytail, blue eyes bright with humor. Clad in a black Armani midi dress, a matching pair of Prada pumps upon her feet. Serena Ferreira, Runway’s assistant beauty editor. She crossed to Miranda’s desk. An incongruous glass bowl in her hands. “Good morning, Miranda,” she said. “Ready to get your mystery match?”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “I don’t suppose I could pass?” she asked. Serena shook her head. “Irv said nobody would want you,” she said. “So, you’ve got to prove him wrong.” A moue of distaste marred Miranda’s lips. “I don’t have time to go gift shopping,” she said. “I’ll have to send Emily out.”

An impish look crossed Serena’s face. “Emily’s helping Nigel with the Met shoot,” she said. “You’ll have to do this yourself.” Miranda sighed. “I don’t suppose you could do it?” she asked. The Brazilian grinned. “Unh-uh,” she said. “I have some models to pretty up. Besides, it’ll be fun. You might even get someone you _like_.” 

Miranda scoffed. “Yeah, like you’ll be getting Emily’s name, for some reason,” she muttered. Serena winked. “I’m lucky, like that,” she said. “C’mon, what harm could it do? Go to the party, have a drink, exchange gifts.” Miranda glared at Serena, wrinkling her nose at the bowl. “I’d rather not,” she said. “Take that thing somewhere else.” 

Serena huffed. “Fine,” she said, pulling a folded piece of paper from the bowl. “I’ll do it for you. Maybe my luck will rub off on you.” She dropped the scrap on the desk. “The party is at the St. Regis, 8:00 pm, tomorrow night.” The blonde smiled, retreating towards the door. 

Miranda waved the blonde away. She turned to her laptop. An irritated frown upon her face. Her eyes fell upon the slip of paper. Innocuous on the glass desk. She bit her lower lip, curiosity tugging her towards it. She snatched the paper from the glass. Opening it. A name revealed _._

 _Andréa Sachs_

Miranda stared, breathless. Mouth agape. Cheeks hot. “Andréa,” she said. “I’ve got Andréa.” She held the paper up, fingers trembling. “What do I do, now?” Her eyes darted to the door, narrowing. Thoughts on a certain blonde, and her brand of _luck_. “Someone I like, hmm?” She smirked. Payback would come soon, in the form of a snarky redhead.

 _Two can play that game._

* * *

Andy Sachs sat in Runway’s break room. A cup of chicken noodle soup cradled in her hands. She took a sip of the warm liquid, eyelids closing. The click of impatient heels invaded her space. Andy looked up, scanning the intruder’s form. Emily Charlton. Clad in a red Dolce & Gabbana floral lace midi dress, matching heels upon her feet. The assistant art editor’s titian hair in a tousled shag cut, framing her face. Andy smiled, welcoming her prickly friend. 

Emily cocked an eyebrow at the mug in Andy’s hands. “I’m working harder than an ugly stripper” scrawled across its front. Emily wrinkled her nose. “Do you have any idea what’s in that?” she asked. Andy sighed. “Liquid gold,” she said. The redhead scoffed. “More like nitrites and shame,” she replied. 

Andy peered at Emily, curious. “What’s up, Em?” she asked. “Need help with something?” Emily shook her head. “Serena asked me to come down,” she said. “To give you this.” She flicked a folded piece of paper onto the lunchroom table. Andy frowned. “What’s that for?” she asked. “Passing notes in class?” Emily shrugged. “It’s for the Christmas party, tomorrow,” she said. “Secret Santa, everyone gets a name.” 

Andy let out an exasperated breath. “I’m terrible at those things,” she said. “And I never know what somebody will like.” Emily chuckled. “I know,” she said. “I usually end up having to buy a gift card, or something.” Andy picked up the paper, scrutinizing it. “What do I get?” she asked. Emily grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator, sitting beside Andy. “That’s up to you,” she said. “No cheap candy or perfume, though. Something nice, but not too expensive.” 

Andy smirked at Emily. “So, what are you getting Serena,” she asked. “You know you’re getting her name, right?” Pink bloomed on Emily’s cheeks. “You… you can’t be sure of that,” she said. Andy leveled a knowing glance at the redhead. Emily turned away. “I… uh, I thought I’d get some tickets, to a show,” she said, her voice falling soft. “For a date.” Andy smiled, grasping Emily’s hand. “That’s sounds great!” she said. “I’m sure she’ll love it!” Emily shot Andy a shy glance. “I hope so,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get up the nerve, to ask.” 

Emily glanced at the paper in Andy’s hand. “Who’d you get?” she asked. Andy grinned. “Knowing my luck, it’s one of the guys down in maintenance,” she said. She quirked an eyebrow at the redhead. “What do you think about the beer of the month club?” Emily rolled her eyes.

Andy opened the slip of paper, gaping at the name inside. Her face pale. “Oh, my god,” she whispered. 

“It’s Miranda”


	2. An Exchange of Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy prepares a gift for Miranda. Miranda does the same. Irv ruins everything. Miranda follows Andy home.

Andy walked 5th Avenue, taking left onto 11th Street. A shop appeared ahead, its façade glass and stainless steel. A florist, its interior brightly lit. Shelving, plants and flowers crowded within. A colorful bower, inviting and serene. A sign crowned the door. _Bellerose_ written, in elegant script. Andy opened the door, stepping within. A woman stood behind a maple counter, arranging a bouquet. Mahogany hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Clad in a black t-shirt and matching jeans, a tawny apron tied around her waist.

The woman looked up, a smile crossing her face. Hazel-green eyes sparkling. An old friend. Amelie Chastain. “Andy!” she said. “What brings you here?” Andy sighed; frustration obvious. “I need a gift,” she said. “For someone special.” Amelie’s smile broadened. “Ah,” she said. “A friend, or perhaps something _more_?” Heat rushed to Andy’s cheeks, a blush painting her pale skin. “It’s for a Christmas party. A ball, really,” she said. “I… I don’t have much to spend. But… I want to show her how I feel. How much she means to me.”

Amelie smiled. Her expression fond. “It looks good on you, chérie, falling in love,” she said. She pulled a worn book from beneath the counter. Bound in leather, deep red. Its surface scuffed and faded. The title embossed in gold and black, Le Langage des Fleurs. “A single bloom can tell so much,” she said. “All we’d share, in word, or kiss, yet hesitate to say.” Andy met Amelie’s eyes, pleading. “Can you help me?” she asked.

Amelie pulled Andy into a hug, nodding. “Of course,” she said. She waved Andy back, to a cluttered workroom. Bright winter flowers, scattered across its length. Primrose and jasmine, snowdrop and aconite. Sitting her down, at a worn table. “Tell me about this special one, of yours,” she said. Andy looked down, eyes upon a potted hellebore. “Miranda,” she said. “She’s… she’s everything, to me.”

Amelie cocked an eyebrow at Andy. “Why can’t you tell her?” she asked. Andy let out a frustrated sigh. “Because she’s above me, in every way,” she said. “How could she possibly notice me, want me, like that?” Amelie shrugged. “She won’t, unless you show her,” she said.

Andy frowned. “How do I do that?” she asked. Amelie tapped the book in her hands. “With this,” she said. “Each bloom a secret truth, from your heart to hers.” She winked at Andy. “C’mon, it’s time you got to work.”

An uncertain look crossed Andy’s face. “I have to make it?” she asked. Amelie smirked. “Of course,” she said. “You didn’t expect _me_ to?” Andy groaned. “I’m dead,” she said. Amelie chuckled, a wicked grin on her face. “No, but you will be busy.”

* * *

Miranda left the bustle of 5th Avenue, entering the Tiffany and Company store. She peeled off her white leather and quilted mesh moto jacket. A silver sequined Valentino blouse, and black skinny jeans beneath. She stepped forward, Louboutin ankle booties clicking on the marble floor.

A young woman approached. Honey-blonde hair in a neat chignon. Jade eyes sparkling. Wearing a DvF wrap dress, forest green. Black Balenciaga pumps upon her feet. She smiled at Miranda. “Good morning. My name is Rachel DeVries,” she said. “May I help you?” Miranda nodded. “I’m looking for a gift,” she said. “A pendant, I think. Simple, yet elegant.” The blonde smiled. “We have some things you might like,” she said. “Please, follow me.” Rachel led Miranda to a glass display case. An array of necklaces held within. “Is there a particular design you’re looking for?”

Miranda pursed her lips, thoughts full of a certain brunette. Her bright smile. Her warm eyes. The sweet scent of her hair. “A flower, I think,” she said. Rachel nodded, selecting several items from the case. Arranging them on a black velvet pad. 

One caught Miranda’s eye. A small flower. Its five petals like a star. “What’s this?” she asked. Rachel hummed happily. “One of my favorites,” she said. “A Forget-me-not flower, in sterling silver and 18 carat gold,” she said. “The stone at the center is a faceted rose quartz.” A soft look crossed the blonde’s face. “The flower and stone have a beautiful meaning.” Miranda eyed the young woman. “What is it?” she asked. Rachel smiled. “True love, and respect,” she replied.

“I’ll take it,” Miranda said.

* * *

Andy entered the rooftop ballroom, at the St. Regis hotel. A white paper box in her hands, wrapped with a silk bow. Wearing a black Carolina Herrera lace cocktail dress, matching Prada pumps below. Waiters circulated around the room, offering champagne and canapes. Andy snatched a glass from a passing tray, gulping the wine down. She scanned the room, looking for a familiar face. One she’d wished to see, all day.

Andy wandered to a nearby window, looking out over Central Park. Lost in thought as she waited. Wondering if Miranda would appear. What she would say when they met. She looked at the gift in her hands. Wondering if Miranda would understand it, hear the silent message it held.

A buzz swelled within the room, guests parting to allow someone entrance. Miranda. Hair a winsome bob about her face, a single lock falling over one eye. Clad in a satin Dolce & Gabbana bustier dress, dark indigo. Silver Blahnik pumps upon her feet.

_Beautiful._

Miranda crossed to the head table, eyes roaming the crowd. Searching. Andy followed her. The gift seeming light, insignificant in her hands. “Miranda,” she said. The editor turned, cobalt gaze falling upon her. She paused, as though disconcerted. “Andréa,” she said. “I hope you’re enjoying the party.” Andy nodded. “Yes, I am,” she said. “I’m glad you could make it.” She offered the box to Miranda. “This is for you. Happy Christmas.”

Miranda took the box, pulling the bow loose. Removing her gift. She stared at it, laying the box aside. A wrist corsage, upon a silver ribbon. A white gardenia, framed by camellias, pink and red. 

Irv edged close, eyes upon the gift. Dismissive. “Flowers?” he snorted. “Not a lot of thought, there.” Miranda’s jaw tightened. Her face flushed with anger. She turned from the brunette, shooting a venomous look at the chairman. Andy stepped back, eyes stinging. She turned, weaving through the crowd. Eager to leave. Heading for the door. A sob breaking her lips as the elevator closed behind her.

* * *

Andy lay in her studio, at 81st and Lexington. Stretched upon her futon. An oversized tee and boy shorts covering her frame. A small Christmas tree and electric candles her only light. Nat Cole playing in the background, soft. “She hated it,” she said. She wiped an errant tear from her cheek. “I’m so stupid. Thinking I had a chance. That some flowers and a smile were enough to let her know. Know how much I…”

A knock sounded at the door. It repeated, growing louder. Andy rose, padding to the door. She peered through the peephole. Surprised by a familiar face. She opened the door. “Miranda,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

Miranda stood in the doorway, awkward. “May I come in?” she asked. Andy nodded. “Of course,” she said. She ushered Miranda into the room, locking the door behind them. “Is everything alright, Miranda?” Miranda stared at Andy, concerned. “You’ve been crying,” she said. “Why did you leave?” Andy shrugged. “I made a mess of things,” she said. “I… I’m sorry I embarrassed you.”

Miranda shook her head, turning Andy to her. Her voice low, soft with care. “You didn’t,” she said. She took Andy’s hand. Fingers twining as they joined. Andy gasped. A familiar sight, adorning the editor. Flowers at her wrist, upon a silver band.

Miranda cupped Andy’s cheek, meeting her eyes. “I hear you,” she said. “Without words. Because I feel the same.” She looked down. Fingertips grazing each blossom in turn. “ _You’re lovely_ ,” she said. “ _I long for you. You’re a flame in my heart_.”

Andy’s breath caught. “You know,” she said, eyes adoring. Miranda smiled. “I do.”

Miranda opened one hand, something falling from her fingertips. Suspended, in her grasp. A chain, bright silver, a flower at its end. “You never let me give you this,” she whispered. She opened the clasp, hands rising, circling Andy’s neck. Fastening it.

Andy stared at the pendant, breathless. Recognizing the tiny bloom. “Forget-me-not,” she said. Miranda nodded. Her voice soft, vulnerable. “I couldn’t, if I tried,” she said. “Not anymore. It’s you. Always you. Here, within in my heart. Each thought and hopeful dream. Of _us.”_

Her fingers rose from the necklace. Tangling in dark hair. They smiled. A new gift found, within each other’s eyes. Pausing a moment, anticipation sweet. Their gravity inexorable. A kiss at its end.

A confession. A promise.

A beginning.


End file.
